His name is Toby, and he chose me.
I adopted Toby when I was 20, in a rough place in my life and just looking for something positive to hold onto. I walked into Cat Depot in Sarasota telling myself I was absolutely not taking a cat home. I just wanted to look.
The cats there roam freely in large rooms you can walk into. There were so many beautiful, friendly cats coming right up to say hi. I sat in a chair in the middle of the room, petting whoever walked over. A big black cat jumped into my lap. They were all cute — but none of them felt like they were really choosing me as much as they were just being friendly.
After a few minutes, I looked down and noticed a little orange and white boy had snuck under my chair and was just loafing there quietly. I hadn't even seen him come over. He wasn't outgoing like the others. He just looked peaceful and happy, right there under me.
I already knew.
I kept pretending I wasn't going to take a cat home. I walked through every room, hung out with other cats. But I knew. When I came back and sat down in that chair again, it took a little while — but just like before, that same shy little boy had snuck back under my chair without me noticing.
That sealed it. His name was Anderson at the shelter, but the moment I saw him, he felt like a Toby. He'd been there six months — apparently found in the floods of South Carolina after a hurricane — and had trouble getting adopted because he had feline herpes.
They explained all the ways that would make his life harder. None of it penetrated. He had a goopy eye from the herpes, which was apparently a dealbreaker for most people. Not for me. He chose me and we were going to be together from there on out.
Toby has been the most consistent fixture in my life ever since.
His goopy eye comes and goes. The grounding he gives me, the love, the purrs every morning when he wakes me up to snuggle — those are always there.
He's had healthcare difficulties throughout his life, but I've always done my best and he's always been a fighter. When he was about 5, he was diagnosed with stomatitis — his immune system started rejecting his teeth, causing painful swelling that made it hard to eat. My happy, fat boy lost most of his weight in a month. I was terrified I was going to lose him.
The solution was a full dental extraction. Expensive, risky, no guarantees. I didn't care. I begged my family for help, filled up credit cards (plural) and got him the $5,000 surgery.
I went to visit him while he was still under anesthesia. The vet took me back to see him. He was sedated, flat on his side, completely still. I reached out and touched him — just wanting to feel his fur again — and almost immediately he started purring. Loud. He didn't move. He didn't react to anything else. Just purred the second I touched him.
Even the vet couldn't believe it.
He recovered beautifully and became a fat, happy boy again. That was almost seven years ago. I would spend that $5,000 ten times over for the life we've had since.
About a year ago, Toby started losing weight again.
I took him for bloodwork, exams, everything I knew to do. Everything kept coming back fine. I kept pushing. We got a hyperthyroid diagnosis and started treatment — but something still felt wrong to me. His weight kept dropping. More vomiting. A heart murmur. My concerns were brushed off. I finally switched vets. The new one took me seriously and ordered an ultrasound.
The results crushed me. Intestinal cancer — diffuse, spread throughout, not operable. I felt like I had failed him.
But he hasn't given up. And I'm not going to either.
His diagnosis is on the small cell lymphoma/IBD spectrum. There's no cure, but there is treatment — and it's working. He's on a multi-medication protocol and his vomiting stopped within four days. He's eating. He's moving around. He's waking me up every morning to snuggle, just like always.
What I need help with is the cost.
I've already spent $2,000 this year trying to figure out what was wrong with Toby — vet visits, bloodwork, exams, the ultrasound that finally gave us answers. That money is gone, and we're just now at the starting line of actual treatment.
Here's where the money goes from here:
Diagnostics & testing — $1,411 (estimated, not yet done)
I have estimates in hand from Toby's vet for an ultrasound-guided FNA with cytology ($764) and a full GI panel bloodwork workup ($647). These are the tests that will tell us more precisely what we're dealing with and how he's responding. I haven't been able to afford them yet.
Ongoing monitoring — recurring throughout treatment
Toby is on chlorambucil, a chemotherapy drug that requires regular CBC blood panels to make sure his body is tolerating it safely. This isn't optional — it's what keeps the treatment from doing more harm than good. These rechecks are supposed to happen every few weeks early in treatment, and every few months once he's stable. I haven't been able to keep up with that schedule. Each panel can be around $500
Medications — ~$600–800 over the next 2–3 months
His current protocol includes prednisolone (a daily steroid), chlorambucil (chemotherapy, every 3 days), Cerenia (anti-nausea, daily), and B12 injections. These aren't one-time costs — they're ongoing for the foreseeable future, and they're what's keeping him stable and comfortable right now.
Total goal: $4,000
According to published veterinary data, the national average cost to treat a cat with lymphoma starts at $4,269 — and that's the national average, not New York City prices. Between what I've already spent and what's still ahead, this goal reflects what his care actually costs, not what I wish it cost.
GoFundMe takes a small percentage in fees, so every dollar over the goal helps cover that and extends his care further.
I've always done everything I can for Toby — but right now I'm navigating this while already drowning in the financial realities of living in New York as a deadbeat comedian.
He's 11 years old. He still purrs the second I touch him. He deserves whatever time we can give him, and whatever quality of life we can protect.
If you can contribute, I'm deeply grateful. If you can share this, that matters just as much.
Thank you for being part of Toby's story.